


Friendly Fire

by disparity



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: (it's alien racism but still), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dark Triad, Earthborn (Mass Effect), F/F, F/M, Racism, Renegade Commander Shepard, Ruthless (Mass Effect), Smartass Commentary, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:37:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6336814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disparity/pseuds/disparity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard's better at making enemies than friends. Her words are a blunt weapon that she never learned to use, and whenever she swings, somebody gets hurt. She kills to make up for it, shoots the assholes that want to burn the galaxy; she fights to protect it just to prove that somewhere underneath the bravado and the scowl, she cares. Maybe someday she'll look down at all the blood on her hands and believe it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kelly: Romance is Dead (Like Shepard)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of short stories from a surly, vulgar Shepard who is a bitch to everyone. They span all three games, though they're not in order. Each chapter focuses on Shepard's relationship with a certain character. There are several romantic pairings; some are merely flirtation and musings while others are explicit. The main pairing is Shepard/Joker, and that'll bleed over into several chapters.
> 
> Warning: this fic references a number of sensitive topics in a crude manner. These include drug addiction, alcoholism, sadism, bondage, non-con, gore, various mental illnesses, physical disability, (alien) racism, and generally deviant sexual behavior.
> 
> EDIT 6/22: I've pushed the rating back to mature and removed some tags, until we actually get into the explicit chapters. There should be about five of them total, and they'll be marked in the chapter titles.

She hates Kelly from the moment they meet. Colored hair, plucked eyebrows, long lashes, and glossy lips. In less than a second, she finds a hundred things to fuel the insatiable fire in her gut.

Shepard's never been particularly feminine—something about flinging herself headfirst into hostile situations with a shotgun on her hip clashes with smooth, unmarked skin and tiny hairs glued to her eyelids—but she can't begrudge femininity altogether. And Kelly does feminine _right_ , gleaming with congeniality and sex appeal even in the same unflattering Cerberus uniform that the rest of the crew wears.

Shepard hates the spike in her pulse, the enticing pull of mutual attraction. Because yes, oh yes, she sees it there in Kelly's eyes, bold and unrepentant as she salutes with a twist of her pretty pink lips that says, _I know you have secrets, and no matter how well you hide them I'm going to find them all, just like I found this one._

And then she opens her goddamn mouth and the sound that comes out is sweet as birdsong and oh so _grating_ , high-pitched and dripping with exuberance. Shepard could reach out and place her hands around that smooth, pale neck and _bite it_ until the sound stops and the only thing left is heavy exhales and wordless pleas. Bite it until desire turns into desperate need and then need turns into horror when she realizes Shepard is a monster, not an angel, and that will be the last thought she has before her delicate body shudders and goes cold.

Shepard doesn't say anything, ignores the looks and the words and steps up to the galaxy map while Kelly is still talking, examining the stars until the shrill noise tapers off and her yeoman's cheeks flush as she lowers her head and resumes her work.

The next time she enters the CIC and Kelly cheerfully announces that she has unread messages, Shepard levels her with a silencing glare. She waits until Kelly turns back around—she maintains eye contact for almost a minute before bowing her head sheepishly, and Shepard is almost impressed—and then pointedly passes by the terminal to head for the bridge.

Joker is surprised by her presence, though he hides it with some sarcastic comment she won't remember by the time she leaves, and warns her that even the full force of the hideous Shepard Glare™ won't be enough to dissuade Kelly from prodding at her inner psyche until something spills out. Her only response is a gentle clap on the shoulder that lingers longer than it should, a wordless thanks.

Joker turns out to be right. (He's usually right, but she'll die twice before she says it out loud.)

Days later, after she saves Garrus' suicidal ass and has a pissing contest with Zaeed and cramps her hand with how tightly she clenches her fist to keep it from swinging at Solus every time he opens his wide, puckered mouth, Kelly is at her door with a tall bottle and determination in her guarded smile. Shepard has to stop herself from admiring the woman's persistence.

Kelly says nothing as Shepard looks her up and down. A rosy smile pulls up on one side, a tiny suggestion. Shepard glances at the bottle, raises an eyebrow, and says, “Wine? Do your homework, Chambers,” before she shuts the door.

Shepard doesn't want to have drinks with Kelly Chambers. She _doesn't._ She reminds herself of the obnoxious tone and the stiff, unnatural hair—but soon her mind wanders to the lips, wet and warm, and she imagines them in between her legs, being put to good use. She imagines until she's sweaty and aching pleasantly, and then she washes her hands and reviews datapads for the next hour.

Kelly doesn't return to her door for awhile. Shepard wonders why, just once, when she's alone in her quarters again and craving the feel of slick skin and sheets. She wonders if the absence, the lack of any communication aside from too-casual glances, is supposed to make her desire stronger. It doesn't, but isn't that just the right flavor of bullshit for a self-assured psychoanalyst?

When Kelly does come back, she has bourbon. She smiles and says, “I did my homework, Commander.”

Shepard takes the bottle and looks over the label. “Gold star, Chambers,” she drawls. Her eyes flick upward. “What do you want?”

“I'd like to talk.” She clasps her hand firmly behind her back, the gesture pushing her chest out slightly. “Or listen, if you prefer.”

After holding her gaze for another long moment, Shepard turns to the side. Kelly's arm brushes hers gently but purposefully as she steps inside.

“Wow,” she remarks, taking a look around, “what a lovely cabin. It's no wonder you find solace here.” Her eyes settle on the fish tank, and she inclines her head toward Shepard, half-smiling as she asks, “No fish?”

Shepard doesn't respond as she pours the liquid into crystal glasses, another unnecessary Cerberus upgrade. She said her piece about the fish tank and other asinine additions to her _Normandy_ while commiserating with Joker on their first day aboard the SR-2. That conversation was responsible for her first laugh since her unsolicited resurrection. The idea of associating simpering, well-meaning Kelly with that moment is jarring and unwelcome.

“So I'm not sure if you heard any of this the first time,” says Kelly, her tone teasing, with just a touch of hurt that makes Shepard freeze for a second, “but part of my job aboard the _Normandy_ —”

Shepard clenches her teeth as the name drops from her mouth so casually, as if she has any right to say it. The glasses clink harshly as she picks them up, shoving one into Kelly's hands so roughly that it splashes onto that godawful uniform. She sets the bottle down on the table and drains the glass before her ass hits the chair. Kelly hesitates before quietly joining her.

“I've done all the therapy bullshit,” Shepard mutters as she pours another glass. “Didn't need it to know I was fucked up.”

Kelly sips her drink. “What was the first moment you knew you weren't like other kids?” she asks.

 _Points for originality,_ Shepard concedes. _Not as many as she lost by trying to appeal to my ego._ Shepard's vain, but she can tell when flattery is just manipulation with shiny paper and a bow.

Her shrug is a harsh jolt, and she takes another drink before answering. “The biotics were a clue. None of the other kids could 'force choke' somebody for pissing them off.” At Kelly's questioning glance, she shrugs again. “It's from an old vid. Never had new stuff at the group home.”

“So you choked the other kids, huh?” says Kelly. She tries to sound aloof, but her tone is unsteady and her concern is like a cancer.

“Killed a couple. Ran away. Joined a gang.”

“A gang?”

“They kept me safe,” says Shepard, nodding. “ _Safer_ , anyway. Started out as a runner, then I was killing for them.”

Two perfect, symmetrical eyebrows knit in concern. “And that didn't...” Her voice wavers, and the pause says more than the words, “bother you?”

Shepard's mouth twists wryly. She lifts her glass and says, “You don't want to know,” then downs the last of the drink. “Trust me, kid. You're in way over your fucking head.”

A quiet moment passes. Shepard looks at Kelly from the corner of her eye, keeping her head still. She can't see the expression on the made-up face, but she can tell that Kelly is shifting uncomfortably. _Jesus, how young is she?_

Shepard can't help a dry chuckle. “What were you expecting?” she asks, her tone cruel and ragged.

“I...” Kelly finishes her drink, not fully concealing a wince at the taste, then pours another. Shepard watches, noting the worry lines that will form into permanent creases as she ages, if she has the chance _._ “There isn't much information about your childhood that's publicly available. Any records I tried to dig up were sealed.”

“Alliance didn't want anyone knowing I was a psycho. I was a biotic. I was _valuable_ ,” she spits.

Kelly shakes her head gently, seeming to recall herself. “Do you resent them?” She looks over, brining the glass to her lips. “The Alliance?”

“They did a lot for me,” she murmurs noncommittally. “Look, Chambers,” she says, clearing her throat, “I don't like talking. And I don't like it when you talk either, 'cause your voice is pretty fucking irritating. So thanks for the drink, but unless you want to take this over to the bed, we're done here.”

The other woman starts, her eyelids fluttering. “I, um...” She trips over her tongue as her mind catches up. “I didn't...” She shakes her head again, and a little laugh escapes her throat. Her voice is a touch steadier when she says, “You're very direct, Commander.”

Shepard turns to her, meets her gaze, eyebrow raised in a question. Kelly's cheeks flush with color. She glances away briefly, then returns with a line between her brows.

“You don't like my voice?” she asks, sounding more confused than hurt.

Shepard shrugs again. “I have a thing about voices.” _Garrus says so._ She's more crass than she needs to be as she says, “Take your fucking clothes off or get out.”

The noise Kelly makes is a scoff or a squeal, but Shepard doesn't care which. _How's that for direct?_ She pours another glass, and Kelly quickly vacates the sofa. As the door slides shut, Shepard lets out a sigh, finally leaning back into the cushions and getting comfortable. She closes her eyes and feels the warmth pool in her stomach. She coaxes it, rolling the liquid around her mouth slowly, enjoying the silence.

Later, when she has her legs folded up in the co-pilot's chair on the bridge, listening to Joker's voice as he explains the intricate plot of some sci-fi vid with a cult following that she missed while she was dead, she blurts out, “I propositioned Chambers.”

He looks like he's about rail on her again for interrupting (it happens often enough that she can pick out that particular scowl from his profile), but then his brow furrows. He turns his head toward her slowly and says, “You're shitting me.”

“She brought me bourbon, and I told her to take her clothes off or get out.” He gapes. Rendering him speechless always feels like winning. She shrugs and continues, “I figured she'd either go down on me or never speak to me again. Couldn't decide which was more appealing.”

The sound that comes out of him is a breathy, disbelieving chuckle, and she feels the beginnings of a smile on her own face. Eventually, he laughs so hard he cries, and she can't help joining him, though not to quite that extent.

“You are fucking terrible,” he chokes out in between breaths, his voice a note too high. “Damn, Butcher. No wonder none of the old crew wants to come back.”

That one's below the belt, but Shepard's never had a problem with fighting dirty. “Nah, they definitely miss me,” she says easily, a lazy smile still on her face. “It's you they don't want to see. You already wrecked one _Normandy_.”

“Never gonna live that one down, huh?” he asks, and the edge of pain is his voice is satisfying.

With another shrug, she says, “Hey, get me to the other side of this suicide mission with the ones that I like still breathing, and we'll call it even.”

And just like that, it's Joker and Butcher again, and except for a few smart quips from the pilot when he's looking for ammunition, Kelly Chambers is forgotten.

 


	2. Garrus: Her Mouth Said No, Her Eyes Said Hell No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus and Shepard's antics aboard the SR-1.

The second time she sees him is the first time she _sees_ him, and he moves like a sleek predator with perfect aim and a steady arm. Someone else might've hesitated, judged the move too risky or worried too much about hitting the hostage by mistake, but he doesn't. When the thug grabs the doctor, he _reacts_ , drops the enemy without a second thought. That's what she needs at her six.

She's never worked with a turian before, and it takes time to realize that they aren't all like him. She doesn't think she's a racist until Williams mentions that she doesn't trust 'the aliens.' It's so crude and irrational, and Shepard hates that part of her agrees, that feels something _wrong_ in her gut when she runs into a non-human on an Alliance warship.

She'll never reveal the part that guilt plays in getting her to talk with Garrus and Wrex and Tali, getting to really _know_ her squad for the first time. Then they pick up Liara, and Shepard is too spoiled by the comforting lull in Tali's voice and Wrex's grunts that always say just enough and the way Garrus moves when he talks like the conversation is a battlefield and he's watching all the angles, to put up with the asari's shyness and nervous fluttering and _fuck, if I have to hear her say my name in that earnest voice of hers one more goddamn time..._

She doesn't even try to find anything redeemable about Liara at first, and it's Garrus that finally pulls her head out of her ass. Liara confides in him, appeals to the side of him that still thinks people are worth more than what they can be used for ( _silly boy, you'll learn soon enough_ ), and when he approaches Shepard at her cabin door, his discomfort hits in heavy, surging waves.

“The fuck did you do?” she asks without preamble, and he halts just inside the door.

“I...” He shifts his weight. “Talked to Liara.” When her expression goes flat, he hold his talons up in a gesture of innocence. “She came to me. She's... a bit more delicate than some of us, Shepard.”

Shepard scoffs. “ _Delicate_ ,” she mutters, scowling. She nods to the chairs, and they settle across from one another. “What does that blue bitch want now?

His mandibles flutter in what she concludes is a turian smirk. “Besides the obvious?” he drawls, his discomfort easing away as they fall into the usual rhythm.

“The fuck are you on about, Garrus?” she asks shortly, part of her anger giving way to exasperation. Anger takes effort, and the last thing she wants to do is expend effort for Liara's sake. Still, here she is.

“You didn't see the look on her face when you melded,” says Garrus, hovering in between statement and question.

She rubs her temple as she remembers, “I was a little busy having my brain scrambled.”

“Do you even know what a meld means to asari?”

“No, because I don't give a shit,” she replies easily. He's still smirking. She'll tear off his mandibles if he keeps that up. “What, is it some creepy asari thing?”

“There's nothing creepy about it,” he says loftily. He takes a dramatic pause before he adds, “Unless, of course, you find the idea of cross-species intercourse unsettling.”

Shepard's brow contracts, tightening the wrinkles on her forehead. “It's a _sex_ thing?” Her nostrils flare as Garrus sits across from her looking entirely too smug.

“Not exclusively,” he admits, “but that is how they reproduce.”

“Reproduce?” Shepard roars, her hands gripping the armrests tightly. “What, am I gonna have a fucking _alien baby_?”

At that point, he gives up on his cool demeanor and makes a noise that must be some kind of turian cackle, a shrill, jarring thing that's almost as disturbing as the idea of a _little blue child._ The images in Shepard's mind are dark things that he wouldn't find so amusing, pale hands against a blue throat, a sharp, serrated knife through a swollen belly if it comes to that. If he's trying to make her feel sympathetic towards Liara, he's doing a shit job.

Out of everyone on this damn ship, including the krogan, Liara picked the worst possible confidante.

Eventually, he calms down and explains what the meld is and what it isn't. He's very knowledgeable about asari physiology, and when Shepard raises a suspicious eyebrow, he smirks and says she'll have to get him drunk before he tells that one. (She does, and it's _good_.)

Shepard still has nightmares about wailing blue infants for weeks. When she dies and comes back with glowing cybernetics that cut her body's sleep requirement in half, the few hours she does have to dream are plagued by asari children once more, and if she never sees another one of them as long as she lives (this time), she won't complain.

***

The first time Garrus asks to drive the Mako, she says _no,_ she'll die before she lets anyone else handle her baby. The only reason Joker is flying the _Normandy_ is because Shepard doesn't know how, and even if she'd probably be fucking great at it _thank you very much Joker_ , even she can't do everything.

Shepard says no the second time, too, and she clocks him for good measure. The third time, he's ready for it, and one swing turns into a grappling match that leaves her breathless and full of adrenaline because _damn, turians are scary when they want to be._ She can't help admiring the way nature or some turian god designed him to be an elegant predator, and it almost makes her say yes just because he kicks her ass and the only thing she likes more than winning is being beaten.

Once, on some half-barren planet in the asscrack of nowhere while she's marking a platinum deposit for the Alliance just so she can dick around in her tank some more, he makes a play for the Mako, and she reaches out with her biotics and pulls him back so hard that he crashes into Williams and sends them both flying past Shepard and through the marked site, tearing up their armor as they crash.

She's not sure whether she wants to laugh at how cowed he looks or scream until she's as blue as the blood that stains his armor, but then Williams starts laughing and doesn't stop until they're back on the _Normandy_ and Wrex asks what the hell her problem is, and Shepard turns to them both and says, “Not one fucking word.” It's the first thing that comes out her mouth since the incident, and it's the last thing she ever says about it.

Garrus doesn't ask to drive the Mako again.

***

She's not sure exactly when Garrus became more than a squadmate to her, but she doesn't realize it until after Virmire, where she loses two. One because even though she's a leader, a c _ommander_ , and she should know exactly what to say, she doesn't; and one because she didn't want to leave Williams behind, and that's the one that scares her.

Williams grapples with survivor's guilt (again— _isn't it cruel of me to let more people die for you?_ ) as the recycled air fills the empty spaces on the ship. Tali's too shaken up to talk much, and even though Liara's forgiven Shepard for her original coldness, they'll never be friends. Chakwas is busy with the salarian team in the med bay, and these wounds are too raw for Joker's honesty.

All Shepard has is Garrus. Hard-headed soldier with a rebellious streak. Irreverent, impatient, always has to have the last word. Unerringly, stupidly loyal to friends, though they may be few, and deadly to anyone who dares to get in the way. Dammit, he _is_ her.

Half of her wonders whether he's trying to emulate her, placing her up on a pedestal and then trying to match the height, but only because she's terrified that he _isn't_ , that they really are that similar. She's never met anyone like her, or maybe she's just never known anybody well enough; and it gets her thinking that maybe Garrus would understand the dark part of her that she hides away, that maybe he wouldn't be so horrified to learn her secret.

She dismisses the thought immediately. She can't risk it. She needs him at her six when she kicks Saren's ass and puts together the warped pieces of this Reaper puzzle, and if Garrus discovers how she thirsts for blood and pain, he'll leave her _just like everyone does, they're all going to leave me eventually and oh God I think I've forgotten how to be alone._

The silence in her cabin should calm her, but instead it suffocates her until she's heading down to the cargo bay in the middle of the night cycle to see if weights and sweat can drown out the screaming in her head; and when the doors open, the deck is full of clanking and humming as Garrus works on the Mako. All she can think is, _Of course he's here, he's taunting me,_ and she can't decide if it would be worse to ignore him and admit that she's avoiding herself or grit her teeth against her insecurity and take a leap.

She walks halfway to the Mako and shouts, “Vakarian!” over the din. There's a sharp clang and a turian growl.

“What the hell, Shepard?” Garrus says as he pulls himself out from underneath the vehicle. He remains on the ground, and his haggardness clashes with the vitriol in his tone.

“Figured that was better than suddenly popping into view at melee range,” she says, shrugging in apology.

“Turians are more sensitive to sound than sight.” He sounds irritated, dismissive.

She raises an eyebrow. “S'that why you're making all this noise down here?”

“Shit,” he mutters. He rakes a talon over his face, then looks up with tired eyes. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah. Couldn't hear you 'til the elevator stopped.”

“Good.”

A beat of silence passes. Shepard commits, finally crossing the rest of the way to the Mako and plopping down beside him. “Whatcha working on?” she asks, resting her elbows on her knees.

He sighs, shaking his head. “Hell if I know. I did something wrong when I was screwing with the navigation system's circuitry, and I'm too damn tired to figure out what it is.”

“Take me through it.”

She's expecting a quip about her lack of engineering knowledge or tech skill, a reference to her pathetic attempt to remote hack that crane on Feros after she noticed the colonists acting suspiciously or that time she called Overload and Sabotage 'pretty much the same thing anyway,' but he doesn't take the easy shot. He just sits there and observes her for a long moment, and she feels naked and exposed even though she hasn't said a damn word yet. Something in his face says that he already knows more than she ever intended to tell him.

Just when she thinks the silence has gone on far too long, he nods and leans back, sliding underneath the Mako. She joins him, holding up a flashlight when he needs it and listening to him talk even though she doesn't understand half of it. She could listen to his voice for hours, and she does, well past the point of fixing the navigation error and onto optimizing the ladar and even calibrating the main gun because neither of them want to go back to darkness and silence.

They're exhausted by the time the day cycle rolls around, but they don't leave until the morning briefing's only an hour away. Shepard stretches out and imagines a warm cup of coffee at her lips as she sighs. It occurs to her that Garrus can't drink their coffee, even if his ragged face says he needs it.

“Do turians drink coffee?” she asks randomly.

He grunts as he straightens up, his voice a low, tired hum. “There's a type of turian beverage that loosely translates to coffee. It wakes you up quick, but the smell is awful.” He leans on the Mako and adds, “It's still worth a cup after a long night, but just barely.”

“I'll get you some,” she says, cracking her neck. “God knows I couldn't command a _shuttle_ without mine.”

His eyes find hers again, though they linger only long enough for a nod. “Thanks, Shepard.”

She copies the motion. And they go about the rest of their days aboard the SR-1 like nothing's different, even though everything is.

He's the first alien that she honestly calls 'friend,' but he isn't the last.


	3. Ashley: Tell Me to Kiss a Turian and I'll Ask, Where the Fuck is Its Face?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashley and Shepard, ME1-ME2.

Shepard's always been fascinated with pain, and from the moment she meets Williams, she knows what the bravado's for. It's armor, cracked and worn from all the beatings its taken to protect her; but this kind of pain? This loss and insecurity and guilt? It poisons from the inside, and those armor seals will kill her if she keeps it up.

Shepard doesn't usually bother to lie to herself about her fixations, even when she's lying to everyone else. They used to haunt her in the dark; forbidden things she refused to acknowledge, not even when the day-lights flickered on. But they're a part of her now, and trying to deny them in her own mind is like wishing away a limb. It's pointless, and the limb's still there, and she either has to learn how to use it or live as a self-imposed cripple.

So Shepard finds Williams on the engineering deck time and time again, determined to nudge and prod until something interesting falls out. She'll peel the soldier apart just to see what's inside, and she doesn't care to use an anesthetic.

Williams doesn't seem to mind her methods. One day, they're sharing a late meal after being on-planet for the better part of a day, and Williams turns to her and says, “You know, Commander, I ought to thank you.”

A few soldiers pass in and out every so often, but the mess is mostly empty. Shepard chews through a tough MRE, raising an eyebrow at Williams.

“Not saying I'm gonna,” says Williams with a smirk. “Wouldn't want to sound like a kiss-ass. But still.”

Shepard doesn't say a thing. She's learned that Williams doesn't like silence, and all it takes to get her spilling the secrets she tries so hard to keep inside is a little patience. Shepard's never had much of that, but she knows when something's worth it.

“I'm not one to cry about sexism or anything.” She rolls her eyes. “I can handle the ones that are just assholes. I've proved my physical strength, same as any man, and most people are cool about that. But as a woman... it's like you have to prove your emotional strength every time you turn around. You know?”

Shepard tilts her head in acknowledgement.

“Well, of course _you_ know. The media still rips you apart every chance they get. If you were a man, there wouldn't be a fucking library of news articles about how you've been emotionally compromised, or whatever bullshit they're spewing now.” She loses heat all at once, clearing her throat as she comes back to herself. “Anyway. All I'm saying is, it's nice to have a CO who gets it.”

“Because I'm a woman?” asks Shepard, because she can't resist. She likes watching Williams dance around contradictions; she's graceless but quick, and her missteps only add to the stories she tells with her feet.

“No, ma'am,” Williams denies, shaking her head. She jabs at her meal with a fork, not meeting Shepard's eyes. “I mean... you know, we've been through some similar shit.”

She's not going to say it, so Shepard does. “Torfan.”

A shrug, easily mistaken for a casual gesture when it's anything but, and a cautious, “Yeah.”

If Shepard could ever call her sheepish, now would be the time. It occurs to her, of a sudden, that Williams might be something of a fan. Pretty, tough marine locked in a fight with public opinion, knowing a stalemate's the closest she'll ever get to winning; and no matter how long the illusion of peace lasts, it can be shattered with the slightest tap on the glass. Kindred spirits, the two of them. In a moment of unchecked vanity, Shepard wonders how much of Williams belongs to her.

“Not to minimize what happened there or anything,” she says in a rush, insecurities shaken loose by the silence. “All that shit on Eden Prime was nothing _close_ to... I mean, I can't even imagine...”

“Stick with me, and you won't have to.”

Williams nods once, strong and sure. “I plan to, ma'am. Stick with you, that is. Until you unstick me.”

“Sure,” says Shepard, though it isn't saying anything at all. But Williams takes it because she understands the difference between taking and being given and knows what it's like to not have the choice.

***

Letting Alenko die is easier than it should be. Shepard knows exactly what it's supposed to feel like—the clench of her gut, the sick head-rush of power. They say she's forgotten Torfan, as if it wasn't a thrilling beacon of clarity in a life lived behind tempered masks. She hasn't forgotten what it was like to hold the purest thread of herself, the woman she's always been beneath the knots and coils, and she never will.

On Virmire, there is no moment of self-discovery. She's made this decision before; now it's only a dull reprise. There's a split second to consider logistics, and then it's done.

Williams gets the idea that Shepard chose to _save_ her, and Shepard thinks that's laughably arrogant until she lays out all the ways Alenko could have survived instead. Shepard realizes, with no small amount of guilt, that she hadn't for a moment considered allowing Williams to make the sacrifice instead.

She tells herself it was an easy tactical decision. She didn't think because there wasn't _time_ to think, and the call she made was the product of years of training of repetition, not personal whims. But she starts to wonder if there isn't something to all that talk against getting too friendly with subordinates, because there's this thing that burns low and warm in her chest when she sees Williams safe on the engineering deck cleaning her weapons, and it goes cold every time she thinks that it could've been her in the ground instead.

Williams plants an inkling of doubt that never stops nudging at the back of her mind, and whenever Shepard thinks back on Virmire, she remembers brown eyes and a really racist joke about krogan.

***

Nostalgia is something Shepard's never understood. Happy memories are few and far between, and she doesn't see the point in trying to reclaim something that should never have been hers. Peace only breeds suspicion because she knows that no matter what went wrong in the universe to allow her something good, it'll right itself someday. She'll lose whatever she has because she can't hold onto anything, and she thought she knew better than to try.

She didn't.

She loses it all, and then somebody tries to hand it back to her all mangled and fucked up, and she gets the feeling she's supposed to be happy about it. Grateful, even. That's what Miranda says, _a little gratitude, Commander,_ and Shepard's just angry and hurt and _tired_ enough to make that perfectly-engineered face a little less perfect. Another chance at life has made her reckless, and it feels backwards; but Cerberus has gone and reversed the natural process of life, so they can sure as hell pay the price it incurs.

Shepard never admits that she misses the old crew, even though Joker and Chakwas and even the damn AI see straight through her. When Garrus says _just like old times_ she feels her first and last urge to hug a turian; and when Williams shows up out of the black to give her a speech about betrayal and loyalty, it's a punch to the gut.

On the rare occasions that Shepard indulges nostalgia, she doesn't imagine that Williams will come back to the _Normandy._ Not the least because it isn't coming back at all, not when the real _Normandy_ is half-buried beneath the snow on Alchera and the new one has a Cerberus logo tattooed on her hull; and besides, she knows that if she cut Williams, the blood would pour out pure Alliance blue.

Loyalty's just an excuse to be blind when it suits you, and Shepard holds that truth close to her heart (she didn't expect a single one of them to come back and she's not sure how much she likes being surprised), but there's still a part of her that understands, the part that will never stop wanting to be more, to be better. A piece of her leaves Horizon with Williams, and it's a small one, but it's more than she can afford to spare when she has so little left.

She talks to Miranda afterward and damn if it isn't simultaneously the funniest and most pathetic thing she can think of to seek comfort from Miranda Lawson, who Williams would've loathed. She doesn't think she needs it until she's hunched over the table in the briefing room while everyone files out, hoping for some foolish reason that Miranda is stubborn enough to stay behind because for the first time she thinks that might be better than being alone.

“Commander, I wanted to-”

Miranda wants the same thing she's wanted since the day she realized that Shepard would never be under her control, but Shepard finds that boring and she just isn't in the mood, so she interrupts. “Miranda,” she says, (she's never called her Lawson, not once, and it's petty, but she's never claimed to be anything more), “where do your loyalties lie?”

Her surprise shows only in the brief pause before she answers, “With the Illusive Man and with you, Commander.”

“In that order, right?” Shepard holds up her palm to indicate that she doesn't expect an answer. “It's a good thing. He's a helluva lot smarter than me.” She meets Miranda's eyes with a half-smirk. “And you're a smart girl, aren't you? Daddy made you that way.”

“The Illusive Man is very powerful and has a lot of resources at his disposal. Allying myself with him has granted me many opportunities I could not have experienced otherwise, including this one.”

“God, you're better at bullshitting than she ever was,” Shepard snorts. “She always hated politics.”

Miranda talks to the datapad in her hands. “You're speaking of Ashley Williams. Comparing me to her.”

“You don't sound too happy about that.”

“You've experienced a betrayal.” When Miranda looks back up, her expression is cool and disinterested. “It's understandable that you would question the loyalties of other crew members as a result.”

“What would you do, Miranda?” asks Shepard, cutting to the heart of it. She pulls herself to her full height; Miranda copies the gesture. “If the Alliance brass wised up and suddenly wanted me back, would you betray Cerberus to come with me?”

“No.”

Shepard raises an eyebrow, asks, “No hesitation?”

“None,” comes the reply. “Of course, that's assuming you'd go back to the Alliance.”

“You think I'd choose Cerberus instead?”

The ghost of a smirk touches Miranda's lips, a trace of the smugness that appears whenever she has to tell Shepard who she is. It's something she does often, as if she senses the need for it. And it is a need, a desperate craving that refuses to be ignored. Shepard's lack of self-trust and Miranda's arrogance are a well-matched pair.

“When it comes down to it, Commander, you'll always choose yourself.” She tips her head, and it just might be a gesture of respect. “We're alike that way.”

Shepard doesn't admit that Miranda's right, and she'll never need to. This is who they are, people that consider themselves first and the rest of the galaxy only as an afterthought.

Williams is a better woman than either of them. She deserves more that Shepard could ever give her, even with two lifetimes (so far) to get it right.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait. I've rethought this fic a bit, and I do plan to do a better job of seeing it through. The next chapter is an explicit one; I'm bumping the rating back up once it's posted (;


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